


Five Things That Never Happened to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson

by prof_pangaea



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universes, Blackmail, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, M/M, five things, old fic, the saddest universe is when they're not friends :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:26:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prof_pangaea/pseuds/prof_pangaea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five things that might have, but never did, happen to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Things That Never Happened to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in January 2005. Still a time when you one might lightly imply homosexuality in a Holmesian context and get comments like, "I don't usually go for that kind of thing". Holmes fandom, man. Meanwhile, I went to a wedding this past weekend and Holmes and Watson's love was mentioned during the nuptials, right after the timeless love of Westley and Buttercup.

It was a fine morning in the summer of 1881, and I had determined that a day at the British Museum would be just the thing to get me out of my lodgings for some fresh air and something a bit more interesting to mull over than old copies of the Times and the sparse decor of my rooms. It's not that Petherbridge is a dull fellow, for he is intelligent and a capable physician, but rooming with an intelligent man does not mean that there will always be a plethora of interesting conversation. He is quite focused on medicine and hardly knows anything else of the world; his appalling political opinions, for instance, can leave little doubt that the man has not the slightest idea of what he is talking about; certainly an accomplishment as I have never been overly interested in such matters. In any case, he is a busy fellow, and is rarely in; a state of affairs which generally suits me, as it leaves me the peace and quiet which my nerves have sorely needed since Afghanistan.

Still, a fellow needs a little bit of excitement sometimes, even one such as myself, and as I had already lost the better part of my week's pension at the track, the Museum seemed an ideal place to engage the mind while not engaging the pocketbook. 

Just as I was rounding the corner toward the east entrance I heard a man call, "Dr. Watson!" in a tone of greeting. I turned and trotting up behind me was Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the curious man whom I had met the previous spring while searching for lodgings, and whom I had not seen since the day we had looked together at some rooms in Baker Street. It had seemed at first to be a perfect arrangement, but Holmes had, for some reason unknown to me, balked and at the last moment decided against the whole matter. 

"Hello, Dr. Watson," said he with an eager smile. I noticed that his features seemed a little drawn. "What a pleasant surprise to see you walking down the street."

"Indeed," I agreed. "What makes you to this area, might I ask?"

"Ah, I happen to live just down Montague Street. I am afraid I was unsuccessful in my search for a flatmate, and I have been forced to keep my old rooms. The Baker Street accommodations were unfortunately taken up some months ago."

"A pity. I do hope that I did not offend you in some way when we were looking at the rooms together, for it seems that you are now stuck in inadequate circumstances. I was still quite unused to being back in England, after my --"

"Please," he interrupted in an earnest manner, "do not think that you were the cause of my hesitation, for you were all that could be hoped for in a flatmate. I am afraid the decision was made on an entirely personal basis; one that I cannot help but think was rather ill-considered, now. I hope that you were not overly incommoded by my foolhardy actions."

"No, no, I still had some medical connections and found something suitable within a few weeks, on Dorset Street, in fact."

"Ah, good." There followed a few awkward moments in which neither of us knew how to continue the conversation. Holmes fidgeted with a button on his waistcoat.

"Well," said Holmes, finally breaking the silence, "perhaps I might call on you some time? I know you are still somewhat new to the city, and I am friendless myself; we could at least alleviate each other's boredom a little."

"Oh, most certainly! I must say, it would be most welcome to have something to do besides sit around my sitting room and listen to my flatmate expound at length upon the failings of William Gladstone." At this, Holmes laughed.

"Excellent. Well, good-day to you, doctor. I must be on my way." He gave me a brief smile and then made his way quickly down the street; I soon lost sight of him. I walked to the museum and had an enjoyable day rambling through its echoing halls.

But I never saw Mr. Holmes again. 

 

************

 

It was a wild, wet night in late October; the rest of the house had retired long before, but I sat up, nursing a brandy and reading a well-worn sea novel. It had been a long, difficult week, and I was enjoying the simple pleasure of relaxing, knowing that I did not have to get up the next morning and slog through another backlog of influenza cases. I listened to the hard rain knock against the windows while I stoked the fire, and pitied any person so unfortunate as to be caught outside in such weather. 

Before I could regain my seat, however, there came a sudden and furious pounding on the front door. I hesitated for only a moment before I hastened downstairs; for anyone to venture to my door at such an hour on such a night meant they were in serious need of my services.

The pounding continued unabated until I opened the door to see a man, soaking and hatless, standing desperately before me. 

"Please," he cried, "my friend needs your help!" Water dripped from his neat moustache. "He's been shot! I don't know how badly --" I cut him off. 

"I must get my medical bag, and then you will show me where he is. It is not far?"

"No."

"Good." And then I followed him into the terrible night.

The man in question was only a street and a half away, crumpled onto the pavement quite near to the spot where the newsboy hawked his wares every morning. I rushed down and looked him over quickly. His thin face was dreadfully pale in the gaslight; he seemed to have lost quite a lot of blood, but it was impossible to treat him in that gale.

"Help me carry him back to my surgery," I shouted, and the man with moustache nodded quickly. We bore him easily to my consulting room as he was surprisingly unheavy for a man of his height.

The man's friend wrung his hands anxiously as I stripped off his coat and jacket, then cut away at his shirt to get clear access to the wound. Thankfully the bullet had gone straight through, avoiding any major blood vessels and only nicking the clavicle. With proper care and rest he would recover beautifully, and I told his friend as much.

"Oh, thank God," he said, and sunk his head into his hands. "I knew it was a stupid, foolhardy plan, but he never listens to me."

"Who are you?" I asked, as I cleaned the bullet wound. "And what exactly happened tonight?" 

"My name is Trevor; my friend there is Holmes. He is a detective, and recently he has been helping the police with a rather complex forgery investigation. Tonight was to be the night that we caught our man -- if the plan had worked as it was supposed to. I told him it was too dangerous, I told him we should wait for better weather, but he is so impatient. And stubborn. I suppose that those qualities usually work quite well for him, but you would think that after so long he might take my opinions into account, at least --" he cut himself off. He gnawed on his fingernails for a minute. 

"But he will be all right?" he asked again.

"Yes." Trevor remained quiet for another minute. Then I heard him chuckle lightly.

"You know, when he wakes up he will be furious with me for coming here to fetch you instead of pursuing the criminal. What an insufferable ass he is." But it was said with affection. I continued my work.

"Doctor, I am afraid that I should go and inform the authorities of tonight's events." Trevor brushed wet hair out of his eyes. "Do you mind if I return here when my business with them is concluded?"

"Of course not," I said. 

"I don't know how to thank you enough, doctor."

"No thanks are necessary, Mr. Trevor. This is my job, you know." I quirked one eyebrow at him. He smiled at me.

"Then I shall see you in a few hours, sir." I heard the door close behind him, and the house was silent once again.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," I said, looking down at the unconscious face. "I wonder what you have done to inspire such devotion?"

But of course he did not answer.

 

************

 

I stared at the tall, thin man who sat across from me in the visitor's chair in my office. He was tastefully dressed in an expensive grey suit, with severe dark hair and a pale, aquiline face. His shoes shone and his manner was delicate, though the fashion in which he clasped his hands together held an unmistakable undercurrent of force.

"You cannot be serious," I said with a mixture of fear an incredulity.

"Quite serious, I am afraid."

"But... I don't understand. How could you even produce evidence to back up such wild allegations? And why do you choose me to prey upon in this outrageous manner?"

In answer he reached within his jacket and produced an old, tattered envelope, stained with perspiration and the desert sun. I did not need to open it to know what it contained. My heart sank. 

"Dear God." I ran an unsteady hand through my hair.

"As for why you were chosen, I am sorry to say it was merely a business decision based upon opportunity. In fact, it was not my decision to make; the Professor is the man who arranges everything. I am merely his messenger."

"I don't know what to say -- I simply haven't the kind of money that you are asking for. Surely the price can be lowered --"

"If you do not have the funds, then I would advise you to do your best to raise them. The Professor is not a man who can be moved by pity," the man said, with something akin to compassion in his voice. "Perhaps if you have no viable contacts yourself, you may find some through your wife."

"Good lord, you expect me to extort money from my wife's family?"

"I suppose you may have to if you do not wish her to find out about your unsavoury past."

"She already knows."

The man seemed quite surprised.

"She does?"

"The incident with Murray was an exception; I told her about it several years ago. She understood. I love my wife, and she knows that."

The man was silent for some time as he considered this new information. Finally he looked back at me with a serious expression.

"Please believe me when I say that I wish this information changed matters. But you still have a practice to think of, a reputation to uphold. The Professor will demand that the offer stand." He stood to leave. "I shall return in one week to hear what you have to say on the subject, and from then you shall have a fortnight to gather the funds." He moved toward the door. I sprang from my chair and grabbed his arm in desperation.

"Please, you must help me! I cannot do what you ask! There must be some other way...." But he just shook his head.

"I am sorry."

"You are a sympathetic man," I cried. "How can you do this blackguard's work?"

The man smiled sadly.

"We all have our exceptions." 

 

************

 

I remember it all quite clearly -- indeed, how could I not, for it was the single most moving event of my life. I had run as fast as ever I had done only to arrive at those monstrous, thundering falls to see no trace of Holmes. The sight of his alpenstock leaning against a stone left me cold with dread. The ground spread out before me, churned up, the only physical evidence of what must have occurred; it seemed to confirm my worst fears. I could barely breath as I read his note.

It was not until I read those terrible words on the plain note paper that the the last gleam of hope left my breast. The emotions that roiled within me -- they are indescribable. I have never felt the like, even when my poor Mary died. I suppose it was different when she passed; I had done all that I could for her and the matter had been taken out of my hands. But for Holmes, I felt a failure. I had not been able to protect him.

My hands shook as I fell to my knees upon the earth, weeping openly as I had not done since my time in Afghanistan. I am sure I can be forgiven my blunt surprise at hearing him speak.

"My dear Watson, that is rather an overreaction to the situation, don't you think?" It would have been a shout had not the falls overpowered the ears, but as it was it the words were just audible. I stared all about me in confusion, but did not see his familiar lanky form. Then I had a wild thought and knelt upon the precipice and peered over it -- but there was nothing but the rush of the waters over the rocks far below.

Nothing.

I had almost come to the conclusion that the voice had been created in the recesses of my grief-stricken brain when I heard it again.

"Above you!" I looked up, and my heart leapt into my throat -- high up the side of the sheer rock-face there was a figure lying on a ledge, one thin armed raised in recognition.

Holmes.

He disappeared behind the ledge and a new wave of fear swept over me, but he reappeared after only a few moments. He was climbing down the cliff. I kept my eyes clapped hard upon him as he made his painstaking way down the sharp, water-slicked expanse of rock. It was a nerve-wracking half-hour watching Holmes cling to that treacherous surface, knowing that any false step could make my earlier assumption into a reality; and in fact he did slip, twice, but both times he righted himself before he fell. Even then, when I thought I might be forced to watch Holmes fall to his death in front of me, I could not take my eyes off him, lest he vanish again as miraculously as he had appeared. Finally, when he was about twenty feet above the path he let go of the rock and dropped to the soft ground. He stumbled, but managed to stay upright.

When he turned round I could see that his hands were raw and bloodied. Mud was spattered liberally over his person, and ground into the knees and arms of his suit. There was a thin cut on his jaw and a tear in one trouser leg. His face held a hint of his regular supercilious air, but it was a mask only; behind it his grey eyes contained a kind of strange intensity, but I had not the key to unlock their meaning.

I stepped forward and touched his arm, and it was solid. I made some sort of incoherent noise and then drew him to me in a fierce embrace. He was stiff and awkward for a few moments, but soon he was gripping me even more powerfully than I him. I remember being surprised to feel that he was trembling.

I stepped back a little but I did not loose my hold. I was still afraid he might disappear if I lost contact.

"What happened?" I asked. "Why were you up there?" 

"Moriarty is dead." I could barely hear him above the roar of the waters behinds me. "He tracked me to the falls. I... thought that he might. He attacked me. But he had no weapon. It hardly lasted a minute before he had fallen, screaming, into that abyss. I don't know why, but he had no weapon."

"But why were you up there?" I demanded. "I thought that you were dead." The anguish in my voice must have been palpable, for Holmes closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry." But he would say no more.

We returned to London within a week; Scotland Yard needed Holmes' testimony to put away dozens of men, and it had been discovered that several of Moriarty's top-ranking operatives had escaped capture. Holmes tracked them all down within a few months, easily, even Colonel Sebastian Moran, the second most dangerous man of the organisation. Things soon settled into their previous routines; Holmes investigated various interesting problems while I returned to my wife and practice, and helped Holmes with the occasional case. In fact, Holmes' services had never before been in such demand; the great publicity that the Moriarty trials engendered brought him as much work as he cared to take on.

Holmes' near death caused me to try and more deeply value our friendship, which I had, I admit, begun to take somewhat for granted. I spent more time at Baker Street than I had for quite a long while, though of course that had to change when Mary became so ill. Holmes was a great strength to me during that trying time.

Yet, no matter how well his own practice went, no matter how many accolades were laid on his head, he seemed incapable of enjoying life. I had hoped that after the shadow of Moriarty was lifted from my friend that the depression that had been so affecting him would lift also, but instead it seemed only to deepen. At first it seemed surmountable; he still took satisfaction in a beautiful concert, or a well-drawn pipe; he still smiled sometimes, or laughed. But as time passed he did so less and less. Despite my best efforts I saw Holmes withdraw further into himself. I knew his cocaine use was worsening as well, though I did not know how badly until it caused him actually to bungle a sensitive case. And so he withdrew even further from society. He even stopped accepting cases for a time, though I knew he could not hold out forever; detection was an addiction much stronger than any drug for him. But it did not make him happy, as it used to. 

In truth, I was not surprised to enter his room two days ago and find him collapsed on the rug, needle still gleaming wickedly on the floor next to him. He had been dead for some hours. It was morning when I found him, so the lethal dose must have been administered sometime the night before. I find that I cannot say whether it might have been an accident or purposeful. He was so despondent those final months. 

Perhaps Holmes would have preferred that fate had not done him any such favour as allow him to survive his encounter at the Reichenbach Falls, but I valued every extra minute, selfish as that sentiment may be. I only wish I could have done more for him during these three extra years that fate decided to foist upon him. At least I know now that I did everything I could. I still failed him, for my best was not enough, but I feel I can rest a little easier, at least, with the knowledge that he was not completely alone. 

 

************

 

Our footsteps echoed as a constable led me through the bleak grey hallways. Over the years I had walked through the halls of many a gaol, even this one, sometimes to interview a client, sometimes to free a wrongly accused prisoner, sometimes to deliver the evidence that would hang a man; even once to give a prisoner an impromptu bath. Always for a case, always with Holmes by my side. 

Lestrade had proven to be much more stalwart that I, and almost certainly Holmes, had ever expected him to be in arranging this interview, and I resolved to find some way to express my gratitude to the inspector. I was sure Holmes would, if he were able. We reached the cell in question and the constable pulled out a set of large keys.

"Five minutes," he said. I nodded. 

The door, with some creaky protest, opened.

"I have to lock you in for the duration."

"I know," I replied. I stepped inside the cell and looked at the slim man who occupied its lone bunk, and the door closed noisily behind me. It seemed merely to emphasise the ensuing silence around us. 

"I don't have much time. It was rather risky for Lestrade to allow me to meet you at all."

"Thank him for me," said Holmes. It was hard to say if the statement was sincere or simply very dry sarcasm.

"Well, I must say," I continued, "it does not surprise me to have finally met you in these surroundings, though I certainly never expected it to be in such... circumstances." Holmes gave me a bitter half-smile.

"No, I imagine not." He turned his head toward the wall. Outwardly he appeared calm, but I could see that beneath his veneer of nonchalance there was a terrible tension. "I shan't be giving the papers the opportunity of a trial. I plan to plead guilty and be done with it."

"I expected as much. I do not think the court will be overly friendly, despite all that you have done for it in the past."

"They can hardly give me much more time than Wilde received; I am not nearly so blatant."

"I worry... in certain ways you are an even more prominent name. They will probably want to make an example of you."

"Very true." That sardonic smile flashed again. "Whatever they do, I will survive, as I have always done. The most unfortunate aspect of this whole sordid business is that my career is effectively over."

"You can always move south and tend to your bees, as you have spoken of in the past."

"I hardly like being forced into it."

"I know." There was a long pause. "I don't suppose you could have told me."

Holmes looked at me as though he would have laughed had the situation been but a little different. I sighed. "Well, you have kept far lesser secrets from me, and I do not blame you this one, though it pains me. I would have hoped you thought me a better man than that." 

"On the contrary, you are the best man that I have ever had the fortune to know. But it is a subject upon which one cannot predict another's response." He looked down at his hands for a few moments. His voice, when he continued, was very low. "I did not want to lose you."

My suspicions had been correct, I noted.

"You won't," I said. "I am much harder to get rid of than all that." At this he took a deep breath, and I saw his shoulders relax slightly. He kept his eyes downcast; afraid, perhaps, to hope for too much. I knelt down in front of him and forced him to look me in the eye.

"I shall be waiting for you when you come out."

I think he believed me, but it is always so hard to tell with Holmes. His nature is so cynical that even when he cannot think wrong of a man he cannot think good of himself. I suppose he has been damaged by the world so often and so badly that it seems to him the most logical way to view matters. But in the end it is of little consequence. I am a foolish man at times, I know, but at heart I am a determined one, and if I must prove myself then that is simply what I will do. 

 

 

end


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